


Overcee

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcee spends six years killing Jhiaxus, again and again.  Overlord really enjoys watching her work, but he enjoys more those rare times she takes a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inkfamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkfamy/gifts).



**Title:** Overcee  
**Warning:** Gore? Nonsexual BDSM of not exactly healthy nature, but it’s definitely consensual.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Overlord, Arcee  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Inkfamy got me to write nonsexual, consensual, everyday BDSM with Arcee topping, in a “what if” scenario wherein Overlord discovered Arcee during her Jhiaxus-killing phase.

 **[* * * * *]**

 

She tracks energon wherever she goes.

He's never loved anyone before, never thought himself capable of it, but a sensation wells up in his spark like fuel from a stab wound as he watches her stalk around him. It defies description. Warm? Ha. It's hot, cold, burning, freezing, and everything in between. Liquid? It's more solid that he could have ever imagined, dragging him to his knees as if an entire universe had compacted into one cancerous lump in the center of his very being. It’s benign one second and malignant the next, tearing pleasure and pain from him in equal measure. The moment he pinpoints one specific piece of his body to amputate to be rid of the sensation, he's found it's spread, it's evaporated, it's infected his thoughts and rushes through his lines like fuel. He breathes it in. It poisons and powers him. 

She tracks energon around him in an inward spiral with him at the center, and the pattern hypnotizes him. She smells of death, burned circuitry, and spilled fuel, and he breathes deep, mouth falling partway open to draw in long draughts of her scent, dense enough he fancies he can taste it. She smells of a carnal house, of slaughter, of a hatred so intense anything he feels pales before it. He can’t get enough of it, or of her. By the time she comes to a halt in front of him, feet braced apart and hands on her hips, chin jutted out to assert her dominance, he's under her spell. She lifts one hand, curling a finger to beckon him down, and Overlord kneels without a thought. 

His knees hit the ground in the middle of her pink-stained footprints, the only clean point in the entire cavern, but that’s how she likes it. It’s how she likes _him_. She likes to see him clean, a hulking weapon of mass destruction standing on the sidelines doing nothing but observing her. She likes to make him wait while she works, and then she likes to get him dirty at her leisure.

He likes it, too. A shiver goes down his backstruts as he waits. This is how she controls him, and he surrenders to her control, on his knees with his optics on her, breathing deep of her addictive scent.

Her teeth bare in what might be a smile if she was capable of being happy. With Jhiaxus' energon on her hands and a full day of torture behind her, her teeth are just another weapon. She smiles the way she draws her swords: in readiness to flay her victim down to the struts to satisfy a primal, unslaked lust.

"Clean me," she says, stepping back. Her feet smear the shallow puddle stopping for even a few seconds has collected. When she languidly extends her arms out to the sides, energon drips in slow rain from her elbows. Fresh fluid creates wet pink trails downward through a dimmed, dried coating. Rolling her wrists plays the energon in scrawling tracks, pink on pink, and doesn't allow the energon to fall. It’s an ever-changing paintjob. 

The motion mesmerizes him, and he bends to the task she's set him. She can't make him. She's small. Fragile, on the outside, but inside --

Inside, whatever she once was is changed by pain and suffering into a vicious killer, set on vengeance to the exclusion of all else. It’s no coincidence her paintjob is as pink as the energon she's covered in. Overlord’s a killer by nature, but Arcee is unnatural, and Jhiaxus succeeded in synthesizing perfection beyond what nature can forge in her creation. She’s a warped and twisted finished product, as ready to tear him apart as indulge him. 

Overlord can't resist her. Her smile draws across the linkages of his throat like the knife it resembles as he crouches on his knees. As small as she is compared to him, he's forced to place his hands on the ground on either side of her feet just to come down to her level, and he locks optics with her. His reflection looks back at him as though she’s a mirror, but it’s a subtle mockery staring him down. The mech in her optics is better than he could ever be, beyond control and in control.

He keeps his optics on hers, the person in her optics mocking his surrender until at last he has to break optic contact and concede defeat. He bows his head before her, bending down to the ground to start at her feet.

She tastes of charred metal. "Like this?" he asks between long, dragging licks, and his voice is husky because he knows what she will say.

"No." She lifts the foot he's bathing with her tongue, and the liquid, solid, hot and cold thing clenching in his fluttering spark _surges_ in anticipation. She gives him a bare moment to savor it coming, but it's not about him. It's never about him. He can feel her use him in how she stomps down.

His face slams into the ground, pink energon splashing everywhere, and he moans. A shudder goes through him as she grinds his face into the fuel.

"Start there."

It's an order. An order that can go on for as long as she wants, however, as energon runs off her as fast as he can lick it up. It’s an order he’s doomed to fail. Futile as the attempt is, he laps the still-warm fuel from the puddle as best he can considering the way she pushes his face into it. 

"Better?" he says in what shouldn’t be a purr but is. Her heel comes to rest on his antenna, and oh yes. Overlord is literally under her heel, a slave to her whims and beneath her contempt, and he _loves it_. His fingers curl into the ground as he squirms in anticipation of what he knows comes next.

Arcee, his lovely lady of slaughter, smiles her bladed smile as she steps on him. His antenna takes all her weight as she lifts herself off the ground. He grunts as the metal creaks, optics closing to feel it bend. It bends under her just as he always has, as he has since the day he found this marvelous, perfect little murderer tucked away in a neverending killfield cave.

She was unafraid of him. He remembers that like a shot of highgrade, memory hitting hard in the darkness behind his optics. She was, and she is, too broken to fear being broken further, utterly uncaring of who he is and what he can do. All she cares about is what she can do to him.

It’s what she does to him that brings him to his knees before her. The day he found her, she tracked a line of pink life-fluid footprints up to him and reached up with an energon-covered hand to press her middle two fingers against his lips. Smiling that dangerous weapon of a smile, she painted them in slow, dragging swipes back and forth, coloring in his smile to match her own. Her fingers brushed over his mouth, dipped between his lips, left vivid pink marks like a claim on his teeth. 

He licked his lips, and she rolled her head back, almost lazily contented by his defiance. It made him real in her optics, something more than Jhiaxus but not an obstacle, either. That’s important. He yields to her whims and stays out of her revenge, so he barely registers on her radar as more than a toy to play with when she’s tired for the day. Most of the time, she probably doesn’t even remember he’s there.

It’s the rest of the time he lives for. Because she didn't stop him when he grasped her hand, pulling her arm up to lick a long swathe clean from wrist to the inside of her elbow, never breaking optic contact the entire time. She laughed, wild and totally confident, and turned her hand in his grip to seize his chin and run her thumb across his lips as though marking his mouth as her own. All that is pink is hers. She is murder, she is mayhem, she is the killer unchained that he’s always wanted to be.

He left the stain on his lips. Left it, and followed her.

He groans under her heel, claimed territory. “Command me!”

"Mmm." It's a directionless sound. He lifts his head after she steps down, and she's looking out over the carnage. There are always more Jhiaxus to kill. Regeneration, immortality, a mech from the Dead Universe unable to die while trapped in this cave with her; it doesn't matter. She sees him and must destroy him, in so many ways Overlord has lost count and can only admire her ingenuity.

It's rare to get her attention enough for even this, but she's growing restless. He’s failing to distract her sufficiently.

He dares lick a stripe up her shin, and her optics dart back to him, narrowing. "Did I say you could do that?"

"No," he says, lips moving against her knee, "but you didn't say I couldn't."

Her face goes eerily blank, but her optics are madly gleeful, amused at last. He thrills as her sword sings out of its sheathe. That is a smile, for Arcee. It is as close to happy as she can be, and he braces his hands on the ground, hunching over them to offer her his back for her pleasure, as an outlet for her ever-present rage. 

He occupies his mouth worshiping her feet to make up for his insolence, adoring kisses pressed to the metal even as she takes payment out of his plating. It's true punishment when she steps away, taking her feet out of range. Overlord moans a thick sound of protest that becomes a sharp scream as she uses the new angle to push her sword in through one of his shoulder mounts. Shuddering, he kneels without offering a fight, hands gripping the ground and optics flickering at the intensity of the pain she inflicts on him. He is submissive to her will, he is subservient before her wrath, and he bows his helm as her humble servant.

It's his energon on her feet this time, freshly bled tracks over the old fuel right in front of his optics, and it’s strangely beautiful. It’s beautiful in the same way her paintings are beautiful, fingers smoothing pink over his back as if she's eking out a map of her territory on the vast expanses of blue armor. One dripping line at a time makes him hers. He belongs to her. She owns him, and Overlord's mouth hangs slack as he pants, pulling in huge breaths that fail to cool stressed systems. A hand on his unbent antenna yanks his head back, forces him to face her, and he looks up at her through dim optics.

The blade smiles. It bites as deep into his other shoulder mount as her teeth do into his lower lip. He screams, not because it hurts but because it makes her laugh long and loud into his mouth, her hands working the sword deep into his shoulder. The swords stick out like handles, and when she takes them in hand, she doesn’t bother to release her bite before wrenching him back down to where he belongs, ripped lips pressed to the soiled ground beneath her feet. 

"And stay down," she says to him, to Jhiaxus, to the ghosts she can’t stop fighting.

Overlord, at least, obeys her.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Overcee  
**Warning:** Gore? Nonsexual BDSM of not exactly healthy nature, but it’s definitely consensual.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Overlord, Arcee  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Inkfamy got me to write nonsexual, consensual, everyday BDSM with Arcee topping, in a “what if” scenario wherein Overlord discovered Arcee during her Jhiaxus-killing phase.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Two**  
**[* * * * *]**

She doesn’t rest. Arcee is always in motion, a restless presence filling the cavern with quick, sharp motions and watching optics. Sometimes she slows, but she never stops. Sheer unbridled emotion wells out of her in a fountain of energy. Hook a power cord up to her, and her hate could power the nearest city. 

Her constant motion holds them captive, their optics locked on her while she walks a perimeter around them. The slightest hint of interest has Overlord tensed to eager to please, and Jhiaxus is paralyzed by terror and cut cables wherever she left him, watching her pace as his shattered body slowly repairs. They both await her pleasure. 

Stillness is an oddity for Overlord. Arcee has Jhiaxus to fill her days, something to occupy her time, but Overlord has gone from devastating battlegrounds to suddenly doing nothing. Although the needy, greedy pet dwelling inside him wants nothing more than to watch for a hint of attention, the rest of Overlord is used to activity. He admires her work, but this self-imposed idleness closes in around him. He wants to leave, to relieve the tedium of waiting, but a strange anxiety keeps him here. He can’t look away for even an instant, or he might miss something important. 

A baring of her teeth; a curl of her fingers; a weighted look turned in his direction. These things, from her, punch through his armor and crumple him to his knees, shivering as the afterimages of intense sensation dance along his nervous system. Pain and pleasure stutter gasps from him long after she dismisses him from her thoughts. 

Those brief instances when he crosses her mind take a split second. He doesn't dare blink, for fear of missing them, so...he watches. He waits. The moment she bores of torturing Jhiaxus, she seeks different entertainment, and Overlord leaps to attention like a cyberhound wriggling at the feet of its owner.

It’s an apt comparison. He’s her pet in all but name, and that only because she’s never demanded he surrender his name to her. Calling his name is unnecessary. She doesn’t need it to put him on his knees. The part of him wagging its tail in delight at her torment of Jhiaxus breathlessly waits on the sidelines, so eager to be summoned he preemptively scurries to her feet at any pause. 

That same part of him aches, tensed to the point of snapping whenever she speaks to him. It will burst if his name ever passes her lips. 

Overlord knows her name. Jhiaxus screams it while begging for the ceaseless pain to end. Curses rain down on her in equal measure to pleas, shrieking tithe to their lovely lady of agony. She seems to relish how he takes her name in vain: a goddess savoring revenge upon a blasphemer. Her smile draws energon, drowning the vowels of her name into inarticulate gurgling.

Overlord has said it in the past, but his throat refuses to let it go these days. It tightens up, and he presses his lips together, averting his optics from the penetrating gaze threatening to open his mouth, steal the words from his vox box, and leave him a silent worshiper at her altar. Her name isn't enough, and it singes the back of his tongue where he holds it, unable find the right pedestal to balance it on.

Inexperience buries the aching, tense pet inside him, and he fumbles for a word to embody her that doesn’t foul his mouth. A word to embellish her name on his lips, worthy of her. A word to fit the definition of this brilliant, broken murderer standing on his neck, using him for no purpose but amusement. It is his pleasure to serve her whim, and it frustrates Overlord that he can’t place a title on her position. There has to be a word to illustrate her place over him. 

He’s referred to Megatron as ‘Lord’. All Hail Megatron, Lord of the Decepticons. Overlord has mocked it so many times the sarcasm is ingrained into his mind, and habitual disrespect for authority leaves its bitter taste in his mouth. Lordship over him is a concrete position, but Arcee isn’t a military leader or the gladiator who forced defeat down his throat. Overlord left the Decepticons because he isn't a tool. Megatron wanted a weapon deployed only on command.

Arcee can’t be his Lord. She hasn’t ever fought Overlord, much less defeated him. She wouldn’t deign to turn her single-minded focus aside enough to attempt it, and they both know she wouldn’t win if she tried. He thinks she knows, anyway. The unknown outcome of that fight shivers excitement through his spark whenever she turns an energon-stained look on him, optics not entirely lucid, but it probably won't ever come to a fight. It takes two to fight, after all, and she's attacked him many times. He has prostrated himself to her abuse every time. Fighting back doesn't occur to him under the slice of silver blades and that madness-laced look. He revels in the cuts and punches inflicted on him. It isn’t the excitement of a fight that surges to meet her fist as it descends.

She's the victor by default. He hands her the crown. His fuel pump races every time she bothers taking him as the prize. Megatron forged Overlord into a weapon, programmed an Archille’s virus into his mind and implanted him with a killswitch, but Arcee barely acknowledges anything outside Jhiaxus. A single glance conquers Overlord more thoroughly than his repeated defeat at Megatron's hands.

Gaining her attention is a thrilling accomplishment, and to be used by her is a privilege. Overlord bows to Arcee as her toy, kneeling of his own will and a weakness totally of his own making. She doesn’t need to use him for his violence and makes no attempt to contain him. He can leave anytime. He doesn’t, but the option is there, and the freedom waiting at his back acts like a physical pressure urging him to cling to her orders. He spent millions of years resenting orders from Megatron. Now he hungers for every word spoken to him.

Everything inside him has twisted into a contradiction, and Overlord wryly wonders if this is what wild creatures feel when they’re first domesticated. It is a poisoned love that brings him to heel. He doesn’t have a clue how he should feel about that.

He has nothing but time to think about it. 

It takes more effort than he likes to leave. Even once he’s made the decision to remove himself from the cavern, he places his decision at her feet for approval. “I’m leaving,” he says, abrupt to cover how it feels like an excuse, loud to bring her optics back from their manic focus on Jhiaxus.

She barely glances his way. "Then leave." 

He pours confidence into his voice as if he can make her see him for once, like he’s not making excuses in an attempt to gain her blessing on his departure. “A Decepticon wrote to me, asking for intervention. I’m inclined to do so.” It’s not a lie, although he phrases it to sound important. Gorelock’s letter has been sitting in his inbox for months, and he doesn’t know or care if the imprisoned mech is still alive. Overlord doesn't even know his own rank remains among the Decepticons. It doesn't matter. Either Gorelock can be freed from Styx on his authority, or Overlord can raze the prison to the ground. Either way, it’s an excuse to -- get away. Do something. Put his head back on straight.

But Arcee gives him a disinterested look as if wondering why he’s annoying her with these details. "So?" She shakes her head and walks away, back to Jhiaxus. Jhiaxus, once again, holds her attention.

Overlord’s lost her.

The heat in Overlord's gut screws into a cold clinch. In his memory files, old thoughts stir. Megatron, defeating him. Megatron, obsessing over Optimus Prime. Megatron, with Starscream at one shoulder and Soundwave behind the other, optics fixed on victory without anything to spare for one fan-turned-gladiator he defeated over and over until Overlord was tossed aside to be turned into a weapon. There’s no passion there. It’s one-sided interest. Megatron looked at Overlord in cool calculation, figuring out how to lock him down, restrain him, and turn him on the Autobots for use in the wider war. Their matches were impersonal, dismissive, continually triumphant without anything to ever finish it to Overlord’s satisfaction, until the itch became a burn became an obsession, and yet Megatron felt nothing in return.

His time in this cavern has brought home a humbling lesson: Megatron doesn't care. One weapon out of an entire arsenal isn't enough to make the Lord of the Decepticons drop everything to chase him down.

Here in the cavern, it didn't matter. Overlord found someone to break him by making him want to be broken, but now she’s turned away. The heat that soothed his obsession with Megatron suddenly cools. Not just cools, but chills into an empty hollow inside his spark, a void ready to fill with spited rage.

He takes one step forward, full lips twisting.

Arcee dips her fingers into Jhiaxus’ open body, scooping her hand through the collected fluids, and her optics raise to meet his. Overlord stops dead. His optics reflect the liquid gleam carried toward him, and the choking, seething emotion compacting his spark tenses into something just as binding, held twice as fast.

“Down,” she orders, pointing with her free hand. It doesn’t occur to her what he thought when she turned away, or that he might have left, or even that he might not obey her command. The possibilities don’t matter in her skewed version of the world, this slice of reality in the cavern.

He drops to his knees immediately.

Cooling energon smears on him. Fingers trail over his neck, poking between the cables and fondling the tubes. They each receive a mark, a wide slash of fuel across his throat like Arcee cuts him with her very touch, and he won’t mind if she does. He bends his head forward to open the back of his neck to her claim, and she takes it. When she runs out of Jhiaxus’ energon, she bends to dig her teeth into the first tube that comes to hand. It’s a major fuel line. Energon gushes out, pouring down his chest, and she coats her fingers in it to keep painting.

Light-headed as he bleeds, Overlord groans. His head rolls back, and his mouth opens, vox box clicking uselessly as words spin through his mind. There has to be a word for her, a correct title, something to tell her what she is to him.

Her hand closes, strangling his main air ventilation shaft to hold his voice in her palm. Overlord writhes, silenced.

He is hers. This is what it feels like to be a possession. This is what Megatron couldn't grasp, and what Overlord surrenders to her. If he pulls, she will let go, but he'll never pull if he can follow _her_. She has her personal war to attend to, but the collar around his neck is a symbol. A slick, fragile symbol that gives him a tangible mark of ownership. 

The collar painted around his neck sinks into him further than the mere energon does. The energon dries to crusted, dull pink, her color now tagging him as hers as well. In his mind, it glistens fresh. She owns him. _She owns him._ It's acknowledgment he's craved since the day he onlined, given to him at long last, and adoration blooms in the hollow spot in his spark, melting him to the core.

Jhiaxus whimpers as she strolls back to him. Overlord stays on his knees for a while longer, head rolled back and dimmed optics steady on the torture as it resumes. Abandonment is a word he refuses to recognize applied to Megatron. It’s no longer even a risk, here and now.

When he leaves, it feels like tearing himself apart. Despite that, a relaxed pleasure fills him. Casually terrorizing the populace of Gorlam Prime -- why the frag do they insist on calling their planet-sized science experiment Cybertron? Cybertron is Cybertron, and this place isn't it -- keeps him amused between the cavern and the spaceport. The travel agent on duty at the desk is more than happy to book him on the next outbound flight, just to get him off-planet. Overlord is in such a good mood he doesn't even destroy the place as he leaves.

The mood lasts all the way to Styx. "On whose authority? Mine," he purrs, looming over the warden. "And if you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with **Lord** Megatron. Or perhaps I could show you my, hmm, credentials." He examines one of his gunhatches pointedly.

The warden gulps audibly. "Th-that's not necessary! I mean, of course I'm not arguing with you, Overlord, sir. I'd like to help you, really, I would, but the K-Class reformatting production line is already operational, and all prisoners have been stripped in preparation for reformatting!" Hands upturned in a helpless gesture, he stares at the crusted gore slashed across Overlord's throat. The Warrior Elite is massive, huge planes of otherwise polished armor standing head and shoulders taller than him, and the mess of dried fluids stands out in stark contrast. "I-I'm sorry, sir, but the prisoner Gorelock has been processed. There's nothing I can do about -- "

Whatever else he says dies in a crunch. A voiceless, dying scream bubbles from his throat for a moment longer.

The warden's body falls to the floor, and Overlord calmly nudges it aside with his foot. The next fool in the chain of command is nailed with a slightly less patient look than the one Overlord originally started out using. His good mood is dented, if only a bit. "Now, let's try again, shall we? I'm here to free a former commander who happened to help me. His name is Gorelock -- "

"Yessir," the warden's second-in-command babbles, saluting three times in a row. "Gorelock! Prisoner! You want him loose, gotcha! I'll see to it personally!" Saluting again, he turns on his heel to sprint from the office, half the staff in the building hurrying to follow on the double as orders are transmitted.

Well, then. Much better service. Overlord settles in the warden's chair. Propping his feet up on the dead mech's body, he leans back and taps his fingertips on the flaking reminder of pride, belonging, and his --

"Blast," he mutters, squinting one optic. The word continues to evade him. Lord? No. Lady? Ehhh, too similar. Goddess? Too pompous. He likes the idea of spending his days prostrate at her feet, worshiping her metal with his mouth, but it's not the right word. Ruler? Leader? She doesn't technically command him, so it sounds strange to his audios.

At some point, the staffers scramble back into the office with prisoners. Lots and lots of prisoners. Overlord blinks out of his thoughts into an office stuffed full of altmode-stripped mechs in stasis cuffs. They stare at him in dull terror. The only difference between their fear and their captors' right now is the layers of resignation to the inevitable. Styx has given them abuse and starvation already. Overlord’s presence is just one more form of execution.

Annoyed, he shoos them out of the room into an assembly area where they fit better. Without armor or distinctive color schemes, the crowd blends into one general sameness, and Overlord frowns as he studies them. It's not as though he ever saw Gorelock out of armor. "You couldn't just bring him to me?" he complains to the nervous new warden.

"We, uh, no?" The mech cringes, expecting death. "They're the first K-Class unit. Our technicians expect most of them to explode during the process, since we're still getting the kinks out, so we didn't really keep track of which one's which. Er. Sorry?"

The prisoners turn their hopeless stares on the warden.

Overlord doesn't care if the whole prison goes up in flames, but he intends to do what he came here for. "Gorelock! Miserable scrapheaps, move," he mutters, shoving aside the cringing prisoners in his way. "Which one of you is Gorelock? You wrote for my help, I'm here, now get out here!"

The prisoners blink up at him. He's here to help someone?

Five hands shoot up. 

"I'm Gorelock!"

"No, I'm Gorelock!"

"Me! Overlord, sir, it's me!"

Overlord rubs his optics with thumb and forefinger. Right. He probably had that coming. "Free them all," he says softly behind his hand, and the entire area goes silent. Prisoners clamoring for his attention suddenly don't even dare breathe.

"What?" the new warden asks. It's almost on reflex. "But -- you can't do that!"

Goodbye, new warden. Hello, third-in-command. Don't mind the mangled corpse that was a person a moment ago.

 _Nobody_ dares breathe, this time.

"Free them all!" the newly promoted warden squeaks, shaking visibly. "Yessir! Okay! If you'll j-just step this way, you can sign a few things and they'll be released, no problem!"

By the time Overlord leaves Styx, his hand hurts from signing release orders. He's executed four more staffers that got on his nerves. He's also been profusely thanked by more people than ever before in his long and checkered career of indiscriminate massacres. It's a little weird. 

To be honest, he doesn't know whether or not Gorelock has been freed. The right name was in among the files he signed, and that’s good enough for him. Even while stuck behind a desk signing a stack of release orders, his mind went on to the next step, and it has everything to do with the fading pink stain around his neck. It’s wearing off his neck cables the longer he's away. He has to return to Gorlam Prime before it’s gone.

A message from Decepticon High Command pings into his inbox as he departs Styx, and Overlord ignores it. It could be a reprimand demoting him. It could be a promotion. It could be a message directly from Megatron. Whatever it is doesn’t matter. He boards the first freighter headed the right direction, recharging among bales of prefabricated building girders, and he doesn’t dream of defeating Megatron. He dreams of vicious pink, pain, and a smile like a bared blade, and the message in his inbox remains unopened.

Shopping in the spaceport delays him for a short while. Legitimately buying things doesn't usually occur to him, but he’s looking for specific items, things he might want to return for later. The method to his madness is that he’s not shopping for what catches his optic. He’s looking for what she might like.

What he might like as well. “Can I help you?” the sales drone asks brightly, zooming over to where Overlord lingers. “The choke collars are best for the working breeds, and we stock utilitarian brands, but if you like the decorative harnesses, we do supply them in a range of colors and sizes. The matching leashes are one aisle over!” It beams at him in preprogrammed cheer. “Do you raise turbohounds? This store offers a loyalty card for frequent buyers.”

Embarrassment isn’t an emotion Overlord is familiar with. Despite that, he avoids looking directly at the drone as he signs up for the card, and he contemplates burning the store to the ground rather than facing the drone over a tangle of leashes, collars, and harnesses he tosses on the counter to purchase. The larger sizes, he hopes, can be cobbled together to fit him. He doesn’t tell the drone that. 

He does ask if the store does special orders. 

The other stops on his list lead to some fun items Arcee might enjoy using on Jhiaxus, along with a handful of treats he hasn’t seen on Cybertron since the middle of the war. Gorlam Prime isn’t Cybertron, but the population is mechanical enough to like many of the same things. Energon can be rendered into a multitude of flavors and textures, and he buys samples to bring back to his…mistress.

It’s a foreign word in his mouth. No connotations are attached. It’s a unique word, fitting his definition of her, and the tensed pet inside him tries it on like a harness. 

It fits.

Pleased, he strides into the carnage of the cavern, and it’s as though he never left. Jhiaxus’ head turns toward him, empty optic sockets blind but audios intact enough to hear his footsteps, and Overlord smiles as rasped pleas come from the mangled mech. 

“Please…stop her…save me…please…anything…”

Arcee looks up from peeling the plating off Jhiaxus’ hand to squint at the bulky Decepticon across the cave. “You’re back.”

She -- she actually stopped torturing Jhiaxus to acknowledge him! Overlord stumbles in surprise, optics wide. For a moment, his mouth works in speechless shock. He has no words. She noticed his return!

Long waves of anticipation winch his cables to a shaking tension, and his spark burns in his chest. She’s looking at him. At him, not the pathetic wreck she hates, but at him! 

Overlord doesn’t remember rushing to her side, but suddenly he’s there, splashing to his knees in the puddle of spilt fluids. “Mistress,” he says, throwing the word out and aching for her approval.

Faint puzzlement crosses her optics, soon dismissed in favor of the whimpering mech under her. “He thought you were going to save him.”

“Never.” It’s never even occurred to him. “He’s yours. Like I am,” he adds, daring to lean forward into her peripheral vision, crossing a line into interference. Not demanding her attention, but hoping for it as fervently as Jhiaxus begs for help.

And Arcee’s head turns fractionally, the puzzlement returning. What is he doing?

Into that split second of interest, Overlord thrusts his offering. “Perhaps a short break will give him hope. I personally find crushing hope to hurt more than physically tearing someone apart. Why don’t you let him get his hopes up by leaving him alone for a while? Imagine his reaction when you resume destroying him.” Irritation turns into consideration, the madness in her optics tempered by thought. He slows, his voice falling to his most persuasive tone. “Join me for light refreshments. I brought you a selection of the locals’ finest to enjoy.”

“Hmm.”

Overlord risks laying a hand very lightly on her leg, bending down so he looks up at his fuel-spattered mistress with all the earnest appeal of the prisoners he freed. “Please.” 

She graces him with a quick look that turns into a second glance. A wave of charge ripples over his armor when a small, pink-drenched hand takes him by the chin, tipping his head out of the way. Watching her out of the corner of his optics, he shudders at the expression on her face as she studies his neck. 

He doesn’t know what that expression means. His internal systems want to melt the longer it stays on her face. He tries to burn it into his memory files.

He’s not sure what combination of pretty words and gruesome promises eventually coaxes her to kick Jhiaxus aside, but his tanks are screwed into clenched balls of tension in his gut by the time she huffs and stabs her victim through both shoulders with her swords. Miffed, she stomps away from the shrieking mech now pinned to the floor. Overlord’s hands feel like they’re shaking as he follows. When he holds out the first of the treats, however, his hands are steady. 

She snatches it from him and downs it. Her free hand is in a tight fist at her side, and he watches it, sitting back on his heels with the next energon sample held in his lap. The fingers work restlessly. His fans hitch as he pictures them wrapped around slick internal parts, making him scream for her.

“Let me,” he says softly, pushing off his heels to kneel up, almost optic to optic with her even on his knees. A sharp look cuts toward him, but it only wakes a shiver of pleasant heat under his armor. Bringing the tiny cube of flavored fuel up, he holds his vents shut as he presses it to her lips. 

Optics narrow, she scowls. 

His knees scrape on the ground, shuffling closer, and he ducks down nuzzle his face against her shoulder. “Let me,” he repeats, desire rough and unformed in his throat. The faded collar around his neck is liquid fire around his neck. His spark pulses wildly in his chest, and his fingers press the cube, asking for this indulgence. This vast favor. Let him do this. Grant him the immense pleasure of pampering her.

Overlord’s armor rattles violently as her lips part. Face hidden against her armor, he gently pushes the cube into her mouth, fingers just barely brushing over her lips behind it. An exasperated puff of air heats them as Arcee shifts her weight to her other leg, fist opening to prop on her hip. Fingers drum. Overlord doesn’t look at them, but he turns his head, nudging into her throat to feel her impatiently chew and swallow. 

Once her mouth is clear, she snaps, “Well?”

He jolts, blissful obedience mingling with dismay as he fumbles for the next treat. “Ah -- “ He has to draw back enough to see the box, and the treat’s lifted for her approval. 

She glares at him. “Give me that.”

“Ah, I.” He blinks.

His spark throbs on the edge of pain, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. The unopened message in his inbox is forgotten. Megatron no longer matters. This is why he came back to a cavern on a backwater planet. Fighting a war he doesn’t care about isn’t nearly as important as waiting here for the slightest chance to serve, to dote on her, and he won’t leave again.

“…yes, mistress.” 

Chin up, she opens her mouth, and he worshipfully feeds her. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** Overcee  
**Warning:** Gore? Nonsexual BDSM of not exactly healthy nature, but it’s definitely consensual.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Overlord, Arcee, Hardhead.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Inkfamy got me to write nonsexual, consensual, everyday BDSM with Arcee topping, in a “what if” scenario wherein Overlord discovered Arcee during her Jhiaxus-killing phase.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Three**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

She tortured Jhiaxus unconscious. It’s the only reason she’s lit upon this new obsession, and Overlord’s optics flick toward the mangled body every time she turns away. “Stay down,” he prays. “Don’t wake up.”

Because every second Jhiaxus remains unable to feel pain, Arcee turns her attention elsewhere. The only other source of amusement in this cavern is Overlord, so to him she turns, and Overlord wants to keep her to himself. He wants her to slice _his_ lines open, bend _his_ joints the wrong way, take pleasure in _his_ pain. Jhiaxus has no idea how precious Arcee’s attention is, nor how much Overlord wishes he could take the scientist’s place.

In all this time, Jhiaxus has never stayed unconscious long enough for Arcee to tire of how Overlord’s throat moves against the palm of her hand when she lovingly grinds her foot into his exposed interface array. An ununtrium-coated endoskeleton does nothing to protect fragile equipment once he opens himself to her. She unraveled his cables, yanking on them to make the mountings strain. He kept his optics on her as she deliberately dropped them one by one to the ground, smiling that dagger-edged smile that does more damage than the hard pinch she gives his ports, one at a time so he winces in anticipation between each crimp.

She leans in, putting more weight on the foot pinning his cable against the ground. Her optics glint mad as she watches his reaction, eager to catch every involuntary flinch as slow pressure crumples fragile internal parts. Wires mash against wires. There’s a barely audible crunch as the casing cracks, and he whimpers when her hand gentles on his throat as if she might let go.

“Shhhhhh,” she says, but it’s mockery. Her optics gleam as she leans down to whisper her lips across his cheek for no other reason than to put her audio that much closer to his mouth, listening for the stifled grunt as her heel comes down once more. She enjoys his suffering. Another cable casing cracks open, smashing flat under her heel. She shifts her weight onto the connector itself, and he groans.

When he attempts to straighten up -- even on his knees she can’t loom over him -- the fancy bit of frippery she wound around her fist goes taut. She pulls it, and he bows the moment it threatens to snap. The collar around his throat will break long before she could actually haul him down, but hints of her strength make him buckle at the knees every time.

She guides him down further into a groveling bow, and he should feel ashamed but he can’t suppress the helplessly smitten optics he turns up toward her. He cranes his neck to gaze up at his mistress, his owner, his tormentor and charnel house goddess.

Balancing on one leg, she kicks him lightly under the chin. Lightly for her, anyway. His ventilation system stutters as his throat closes off, and he gags on the collapsed intake. Then she wraps her foot in the leash, smiles wickedly, and slams it to the ground in a harsh stomp onto a previously-abused section of his main interface cable. Sparks spit into the dirt, the outer coating splitting apart, and Overlord shudders, fingers digging helplessly into the ground beside his own broken connector. The leash holds him nearly face-first into her foot. 

She shifts, putting her weight on the toe gradually, and he pants from far more than a crushed air shaft as his already-cracked connector bends inward, metal creaking. A single, snapped-off prong pops out. It pings off his forehelm and sticks out of the dirt like a spectator watching him writhe.

He holds a cry in, clawing for enough control not to scream. Jhiaxus screams. She doesn’t torture Overlord for his screams. She doesn’t bend down to hear his agony.

Thick, pleasure-laced pain comes out in a quiet, “Ah-ahh-hhn,” and he can almost feel her chuckle, it comes out so low and deep. The sound caresses him like the hand she generously pets down his back. 

His systems shiver inside him, squirming under the praise of her pleasure. The glittering, thread-thin leash she tied around his neck now lies slack in the dirt as he surrenders completely to her control. Bending forward, he bows in humble worship to her. 

She stands over him and rocks her ankle to slide broken parts together in his connector. Wires scrape rock. The broken metal of his connector grates along the ground, prongs jiggling loosely in their slots. Overlord moans throatily and raises his head, optics blurring as his fans struggle to keep him cool. It hurts, a prolonged ache he’ll carry behind his panel for days if he even bothers to close it. He probably won’t. Anything to encourage a proprietary hand on his unprotected equipment is a good idea.

Handfuls of dirt compress to stone in his fists, and he presses a kiss to the arch of her foot as his connector crackles close enough to singe his lips. She laughs again, and the leash goes taut as she pulls him up to see his face. The sight of her smile slashes fierce joy across his spark, a lash like a whip, and sparks suddenly spit from his connector. Overload discharges in a pent-up flash, electricity skittering through the dirt as she thrusts his face back into it, and he gasps air hot enough to burn the back of his throat.

“How many times can you do that?” she asks. What would have been a filthy whisper from anyone else is a frank question delivered in a conversational tone. “Get yourself off. I don’t want to waste my time tending to a charged-up pet, so you get your hands on it. Stuff your ports. I don’t want to hear what you’re imagining when you’re finger-fragging yourself. I don’t care. I just want to see it.” She wants to watch him obey her. The way he pants on her feet pleading for simple acknowledgement entertains her. 

Overlord fumbles, system-shock hitting him in the backwash of the pain-driven overload, but it’s simple work to reach underneath himself and find his eager ports. The latchkeys are warped from her play. It’s a delicious pain as they click against his fingertips. Brushing against the hot metal, he teases himself even as he begs, “Please, mistress…”

“Stop wasting my time.”

His other hand closes over her foot, thumb rubbing under the toe since she hasn’t moved. If anything, all her weight now balances on the crimped connector she stands on. Sizzling flashes of pleasure so intense it feels like pain, pain so deep it can only be pleasure ram into his sensory system as he strokes himself. Overlord blindly presses open-mouthed kisses to her foot, unable to see more than a smudge of pink as he ramps back up toward a second overload.

She hauls his head up by the antenna, the heel of her hand on his cheek, and he dims his optics. His world is pink, her pink, his whole world is pain and pleasure and her. Fingers drag across his lips as if cleaning the dust away as he feels everything she inflicts on him and dares ask for more.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Overcee  
**Warning:** Gore? Nonsexual BDSM of not exactly healthy nature, but it’s definitely consensual.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Overlord, Arcee, Hardhead.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Inkfamy got me to write nonsexual, consensual, everyday BDSM with Arcee topping, in a “what if” scenario wherein Overlord discovered Arcee during her Jhiaxus-killing phase.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Four**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

The first time Overlord’s rival walks into the cavern, it’s been only a few weeks since the Decepticon himself followed the screams deep underground. The screaming turned into a visual so stunning he hasn’t left since. It alarms him sometimes how captivated he is by the pink-stained killer picking Jhiaxus apart in ever-new and agonizing ways, but it doesn’t alarm him enough to actually get up and leave. He’s still sitting against the cavern wall, one arm casually resting on his knee and optics fixated on the show, when the Autobot arrives. 

He doesn’t even notice Overlord. He’s carrying a large box, frowning into it as if it offends him. While it’s surprising to see an Autobot here, Overlord assumes he’s here to stop the endless torture. That seems like a suitably Autobotish thing to do. Overlord’s vaguely offended on Arcee’s behalf that they only sent one person. She’s going to snap the idiot in half for interrupting her and go right back to the killing.

Overlord almost interferes to spare her the interruption. She has more important things to do than destroy Autobots.

Curiosity stops him, however. The fool hasn’t seen him yet, and it’s a rare opportunity to stand on the sidelines as the action happens. 

Alright, fine, plus he dearly wants to watch this glorious incarnation of hate tear the Autobot apart. That maddened grin of hers is just so damn _hot_. Excuse Overlord for wanting to see her chase a moving target around.

Except death and destruction don’t happen. The Autobot doesn’t even flinch at the scene. He stands there looking bored until a particularly gruesome wet noise ends Jhiaxus’ screams. “Are you done yet?” he asks in the relatively quiet aftermath. 

“Never,” Arcee says. She glares down at the gurgling scientist at her feet. 

“Didn’t think so. Here.” The Autobot hands her the box. “Coolant, energon. You don’t use the rags,” he says, giving the gore dripping off her plating a critical look, “so I didn’t bring any more.”

She merely grunts acknowledgement. As always, keeping her attention for more than half a minute is a futile effort. It’s returned to Jhiaxus, attracted by the faint scratch of hands on the ground. Amazingly, he’s attempting to turn over and inch away. His fingers feebly scrabble at the ground. She eyes the back plating exposed like an invitation, and Overlord shivers at her smile.

The Autobot doesn’t seem disturbed as she pounces. “’Thanks Hardhead,’” he grumbles over the crunch. “You’re welcome, Arcee. Same time next month? ‘Of course, Hardhead.’” 

Overlord blinks. Well, that’s a nagging question finally answered. In the weeks since he found her, Arcee hasn’t left. He wondered how she doesn’t starve, but evidently the logistics behind one person murdering a mech unable to die simply involve someone else bringing her fuel.

…he could do that for her. She doesn’t need an Autobot to do that. Hmmph.

Arcee ignores the Autobot’s mocking conversation, which pleases Overlord. The Autobot is obviously nothing to her but a convenience. He’ll destroy the mech and have this delightful killer to himself.

Hardhead turns to stomp toward the exit, only to jerk up short as Overlord stirs. 

Unfolding to his feet is a production meant to intimidate. “And who,” Overlord says, smiling pleasantly, “might you be?”

“Overlord!” the Autobot hisses, shoulder cannons whining online, and the terror in his optics satisfies Overlord’s sadistic side. “What are you -- how -- “

“I could ask the same. It won’t matter in short order, but I confess myself curious.” Overlord uses his most courteous tone. It never fails to make his opponents terribly aware of impending death, and the Autobot stiffens. Rage and fear fight on his face, fight-or-flee protocols crashing headlong into each other. Overlord lets his smile widen. The little mech doesn’t stand a chance either way, and they both know it.

“Stop that.”

They blink and glance to the side. Arcee pauses elbow deep in Jhiaxus’ back to glare at them, a snapped strut trailing nerve wires from her hands. Pink energon scatters in thick globs as she points at the Autobot. “I’m an Autobot. He’s an Autobot.” She scowls at Overlord as though that should be enough, but confusion creases his face. She squints at him, irritated, and makes the effort to spell it out for his stupid, slow, war-centered processor. “No attacking.” There. That’s a clear order. Pets don’t attack friends. 

Her gaze transfers to Hardhead as her finger stabs at Overlord next. “And that’s mine. Don’t touch.” The corner of her mouth twitches up once, and she adds an explanation, or maybe a warning, “He bites.” Don't try and pet her pet, in other words.

Having said all she thinks necessary, she goes back to pulling out Jhiaxus’ back struts one section at a time. Overlord’s spark melts around the edges. Has she just staked her claim on him? Was that recognition? Is he hers now? She said he is. 

His knees weaken. 

It takes a minute to shake off the lovestruck expression turning his optics absolutely rosy, but Overlord manages after a few minutes. The infatuation's blatant enough that Hardhead looks more than a little uncomfortable when he finally remembers the Autobot exists.

After an awkward cough into his hand, Hardhead studies the ground intently. “You’re…hers,” he says doubtfully.

“She’s an Autobot?” Overlord asks just as doubtfully.

The answer appears to be ‘yes’ in both cases. Neither one of them knows what to do with this unwanted knowledge.

Overlord eyes Hardhead. Hardhead eyes Overlord. They both look at Arcee. She's busy turning Jhiaxus into a puddle of shredded metal, confident she's settled any issue they might have with one another. Her pet will behave because she says so, and her fellow Autobot won't poke her pet because said pet is hers.

That does effectively stop the fight before it begins, but it’s beyond weird to have it bluntly laid out like that. Arcee’s grasp on what’s socially acceptable to tell people isn’t very well developed. Hardhead doesn't know where to look or what to do with the idea of Overlord, Decepticon Warrior Elite, submitting to Arcee. And looking at her the entire time as though she's everything he's ever wanted. That's even harder to wrap his mind around.

Overlord just doesn't want to share his killer queen. He glowers at the embarrassed mech.

Eventually, they resort to ignoring each other. Rather sullenly, and woe betide the Autobot if Overlord finds him outside the cavern, but Arcee rules this small underground world. He’ll do as she says.

Although it shocks him initially to learn Arcee considers herself an Autobot, Overlord doesn’t really care. It doesn’t connect in his head. She’s simply…not. Not Autobot. Not in any way. His mistress spends her time torturing a mech. The cross-faction appeal is stronger that war, here.

Overlord has no loyalties to the Decepticons, but Autobots bore him. They’re sickeningly self-righteous, worse than Megatron during a speech, and they twist reality until their version shows their hands clean. The ones who don’t see themselves as heroes are almost tolerable, like the Wreckers, but even they prefer to cast themselves as the ‘Good Guys.’

There is no pure narrative in black and white. Both factions are equally idiotic, in his opinion. Megatron and Optimus Prime could have ended it a hundred times over if they had the guts to stop playing by made-up rules, but they always back down. Their obsession with each other has turned the war into a personal fight.

Overlord sees the war for what it is: an amusing conflict over resources long descended into petty ego-stroking squabbles in already dead territory. Fun, but ultimately pointless. Cybertron’s a wasteland. He doesn’t know what the Decepticons used to be fighting for, much less what the current rhetoric is. The Autobots, of course, have the same goal with more politically correct wording.

It doesn't matter what faction emblem Arcee chooses. War doesn't matter here. The minibot residents of Gorlam Prime -- or Cybertron, as they insist on calling their planet -- avoid this region with wary fear, respecting it as his territory. The closest cities don't precisely welcome him, but as the months pass, they warm to his presence. They're greedy for his money. 

That's incentive enough not to kill them all. The shortlived pleasure of a massacre isn't worth not having a shopping center nearby. Hardhead brings Arcee energon and coolant, but Overlord buys her indulgences. He brings her gifts, ever hopeful that she will turn her attention from Jhiaxus to him for longer than a minute. 

His mistress does like local delicacies, or at least she enjoys hearing him beg to feed her them. He's pathetically eager for the privilege. After she’s done covering him in his own vital fluids, his hands smear the treats as he presses them to her lips. The taste seems to please her. Or perhaps she just enjoys whipping him as much as she likes beating Jhiaxus. 

The whip alone is a good reason to spare the nearest city. Shopping has been a lot more interesting since finding out that several of the pet stores have back rooms for special customers. 

It's slightly awkward the first time an employee looks up from his purchases to stare at him, understanding dawning. The size of the harnesses and collars make his status unmistakable. He's never had a clerk smirk at him that way, and he doesn’t know how to handle the hint of condescending glee. On one hand, everyone who works at that store keeps sending secretive smiles in his direction. On the other hand, the whispers he overhears speculate on how awesome his mistress is. They don’t actually know about his mistress, but the speculation makes him puff up in gloating pride that, yes, he’s hers, and yes, she’s great. So great they all know it. 

Overlord isn't used to being seen as a submissive pet whining at his mistress' heels, but he could get used to it. He decides that flaunting the stain of Jhiaxus’ energon around his neck like a collar wasn’t any different. Submission is a mark of pride.

Hey, Arcee doesn't give a single piece of scrap that the people of Gorlam Prime even exist. _He's_ her pet. That's something to be proud of.

The Autobot, however, keeps giving him funny looks. They make Overlord itch to kill. Fortunately, Hardhead knows Overlord, or knows what he’s capable of, and most of the time he's smart enough to stay away exploring catacombs somewhere. It annoys Overlord when he intrudes in the small murder haven of the cavern as if he has any right to interrupt.

So the massive Decepticon is sulking at the mouth of the cavern at the moment, arms crossed over the buckle-heavy harness he put on for his mistress' pleasure. A pleasure cut short when Hardhead barged in. Stupid Autobot. Stupid Autobot Overlord can't pulverize. He hates that mech so much.

But suddenly Arcee's voice is approaching, and he straightens in surprise as she comes into sight walking up the incline toward the exit. "Don't let him up," she instructs over her shoulder, "and if he comes back online, kick him in the head until he not anymore." 

Hardhead emerges behind her, looking somewhat lost. "I refuse to torture him."

She whirls, and the glimpse Overlord gets of her face sends a surge through his spark. Hardhead's optics widen. "Then don’t. I'm trusting you to keep him here. Don't make me regret trusting you.”

Overlord's own optics pop wide. Wait, she what?

Hardhead spreads his hands. "He's in no shape to escape."

She keeps looking at him for a minute longer, long enough to make him shift uneasily. "Mmm. Fine." Turning her heel, she heads toward the Decepticon. "You!"

Overlord blinks rapidly for a second. "Mistress?" he asks softly, confused. What was going on?

One imperious hand snags a harness strap as she sweeps by him, confident he'll hurry in her wake. "Heel.” Just one word’s enough to make him trip over himself following the pull, but she keeps talking. “We're going on an outing. Hardhead's minding Jhiaxus." 

Behind them, Hardhead sneers at the huge Decepticon’s back. He still looks uneasy. It's probably those Autobot morals acting up. They're probably why Arcee trusts him. Overlord abruptly finds them to be a forgivable trait.

Hardhead is the reason Arcee is leaving the cavern. Overlord likes him a ridiculous amount right now.

The harness tugs, and Overlord stumbles in his rush to catch up. "Where are we going?" he asks, almost breathless, and the sly look Arcee throws over her shoulder flushes heat through him.

"We have a reservation at a pet salon," she says, so smug it’s positively evil, and he's never loved someone as much as he loves her now. "Hardhead found a place with a big front window. They’ll groom you in it while I sit in the cafe across the street."

...Overlord is going to send that Autobot a fragging _gift basket_.

"I imagine they'll be a bit surprised that my pet's so big," she pats his chest, and the proprietary gesture turns the heat into an inferno, "but I'm sure they have a muzzle your size."

He opens and shuts his mouth. No sound comes out. Humiliation and an absurd amount of pleasure twist a tight knot in his throat. She's going to drop him off at a pet store to be cleaned as though he's nothing but a turbohound. He’s probably shopped at whatever place she’s reserved. The employees will recognize him on sight. He's going to be a laughingstock.

She's going to sit there watching him be stripped of his armor, scrubbed, and polished. On display. In public. Muzzled, if she has her way, and she’s going to want him to act the part, or at least cooperate. Everyone will to know he obeys her slightest whim. Everyone will see she owns him. She’ll be watching everyone watch him watch her. She’s going to watch him be a good pet, and watch everyone marveling that he’s her good pet.

He hasn't been so turned on since the arena days.

His throat aches sharply, something like happiness stuck in it. He swallows a mouthful of dread around it, forcing his voice steady. "But I -- "

"If you don't behave, I'll have to beat sense into you," she threatens, yanking on the harness.

Oh. Scratch that. Megatron never made him shudder through overload just by talking. Dazed, Overlord follows his little mistress toward the city.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
